, with evident reluctance,
"you think, you suppose, that the General is acquainted with the
whereabouts of the missing millions?"

"Quite correct," answered the magistrate, and then as if he feared that
he had gone too far, he added: "but draw your own conclusions respecting
the matter. You have the whole night before you. We will talk it over
again to-morrow, and if I can be of service to you in any way, I shall
be only too glad."

"But, monsieur--"

"Oh--to-morrow, to-morrow--I must go to dinner now; besides, my clerk
must be getting terribly impatient."

The clerk was, indeed, out of temper. Not that he had finished taking
an inventory of the appurtenances of this immense house, but because he
considered that he had done quite enough work for one day. And yet his
discontent was sensibly diminished when he calculated the amount he
would receive for his pains. During the nine years he had held this
office he had never made such an extensive inventory before. He seemed
somewhat dazzled, and as he followed his superior out of the house, he
remarked: "Do you know, monsieur, that as nearly as I can discover the
deceased's fortune must amount to more than twenty millions--an income
of a million a year! And to think that the poor young lady shouldn't
have a penny of it. I suspect she's crying her eyes out."

But the clerk was mistaken. Mademoiselle Marguerite was then questioning
M. Casimir respecting the arrangements which he had made for the
funeral, and when this sad duty was concluded, she consented to take a
little food standing in front of the sideboard in the dining-room.
Then she went to kneel in the count's room, where four members of the
parochial clergy were reciting the prayers for the dead.

She was so exhausted with fatigue that she could scarcely speak, and
her eyelids were heavy with sleep. But she had another task to fulfil, a
task which she deemed a sacred duty. She sent a servant for a cab, threw
a shawl over her shoulders, and left the house accompanied by Madame
Leon. The cabman drove as fast as possible to the house where Pascal and
his mother resided in the Rue d'Ulm; but on arriving there, the
front door was found to be closed, and the light in the vestibule was
extinguished. Marguerite was obliged to ring five or six times before
the concierge made his appearance.

"I wish to see Monsieur Ferailleur," she quietly said.

The man glanced at her scornfully, and then replied: "He no longer lives